Whole Connections
by It's Just That
Summary: [ONESHOT] TomHarry During the confrontation at Godric Hollow, long ago when Harry was but a child, what were Tom's thoughts? '..Her corpse lay there, still warm from the power of the spell, her soul dribbling away and into my wand's core..'


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"…_Am I immortal? I return to my first question. In the first place, is it not more probably that the beverage of the alchymist was fraught rather with longevity than eternal life? Such is my hope. And then be it remembered, that I only drank __half__ of the potion prepared by him. Was not the whole necessary to complete the charm? To have drained half the Elixir of Immortality is but to be half-immortal -- my For-ever is thus truncated and null…"_

-Excerpt from 'The Mortal Immortal' by Mary Shelley.

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**DISCLAIM IT: **I don't own HP. Never have, never will, damnit.

Title: Whole Connections

Dedication: For those people that wanted more TomHarry stories. This is just a pre-slash, I guess.

Summary: Tom learns to feel for once. His thoughts throughout the whole years. Shortened to a nice one-shot, of course, but this is rather terse for my liking. This is his thoughts on the whole bout during Godric Hollow.

Pairings: Tom+Harry but nothing shippy. There are mild hints, but take no offense. Please, just READ it and wonder.

Rating: K+ to T

Warnings: A spur of the moment thing. It's not random, it just spilled, and I kept typing. Boy are these impulses going to kill me one day. This was sort of an exercise for me, to see how serious I could type. xD And by the way, some words aren't even listed in the firefox dictionary--"worshipping" is a word, damnit! o.o'

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Where was love when I was born? Easily said and answered: _nowhere_. It was but a frail bit of hope that eluded me time and time again, as the professors at Hogwarts told me that I would grasp the concept of 'love' sometime shortly. "Every adolescent goes through it!" they say, and for some, I know it to be true. But for me, I know not. I _cannot_, for I have never known the word, never felt the world, and never experienced the word. It was a frustrating notion that, for someone of my caliber, I just could not comprehend the simple thought of _loving _another person--of course, someone asides from my own self.

Throughout my schooldays, I plotted for some intangible thing. People followed my ways, and I taught them. Brilliant witches, brilliant wizards, and yet none dared tell me the simple words that I longed to hear: "_You will die_." Is it not so easy to say these words to a man like me?

In my youth, I was admired, even feared, but not recognized. None dared come up to me and challenge my whims at all. These thoughts confused me, and I considered my options. What could make them know I was different? What would strike them in the face, and make them realize that I was more than what they could ever hope to achieve?

Thus, I spent months, locked up in my study room, perfecting spells of utmost wonder. These spells I used to harm, to kill, to maim, and at no price in return. These were my pride and joy, and what my once, naïve self was, I am not anymore. Magic turned me, as magic turned many others, and I was only but an adherent to it.

Singing in my ears, the sweet power lulled me to make mistakes, to charge my impulses and make those under me grovel and simper disgustedly. There were whispers of, "My lord," and "My liege," and terrified worshipping, but nothing—_nothing _made me feel whole. Where were those words? Those dratted words that I longed to hear but none could tell?

So many a year has gone by, until one prophecy changed everything. A supporter had told me of it, and I was skeptical. I wanted to see the one with parents that had 'thrice' defied me. I went, I observed, and I conquered. Their screams of panic and anger had fueled my insane and twisted concept of reality. The bespectacled man had fought determinedly, but of course, I had come out the victor in the flick and swish of the wand battle. None could better me in duels of spells. He had died chivalrously and to that, I gave him one last spell that, even in death, would make him relieve the happiest memories of his life. It was only the least I could do, after all, there were none so brave but foolhardy as he.

But what the red woman did was puzzling, though. She had thrown herself into the curse that I had created for quick and painless death, and embraced it full heartedly. Evidently, there was no fear in her eyes, only dejection—resignation of what was to come and be. And this had befuddled me as I stood there, in such a small, but cozy bedroom filled with child toys. In the corner of the room was an old game chest, overflowing with well-cared for toys that I had seen as a child. All around there were posters of Quidditch Players, a chandelier of mini-lighting broomsticks and a magical book filled with tales from ages past.

A pain suddenly struck me in the chest, and I nearly staggered, if not for the fact that I stumbled right into the doorframe. I stared wildly at the woman, who lay serene, and even should I dare say it, enchanting in her death.

Her corpse lay there, still warm from the power of the spell, her soul dribbling away and into my wand's core. Out of respect, for no one had ever taken the curse for another before, I bent down to close her dulled, but still stunning green eyes. Then the baby in the crib wailed, and I straightened to gaze at one of the most strangest creatures that I've ever had the chance to lay eyes upon—for I have never seen one up close.

I knew, at the orphanage, that there were smaller youths, but this was another thing entirely. A head full of unruly black hair, eyes the color of emerald gems, and thin arms—much too thin for that of someone his age of two. Those same arms were raised in the air, and those same eyes pleaded with me to do something to end his suffering. It was as if the baby were saying, "_Carry me! Carry me!" _And I did nothing but to oblige.

He was heavy in my arms, and I struggled to carry him. Eventually, his cries stopped altogether, and I was glad, for my arms had begun to ache with the weight. I gently placed him back into the crib, feeling whole for once. I took my time to watch him, those captivating eyes calming me to a false sense of security.

And then I remembered why I was here.

So with a lethargic wave of my hand, I spelled him, but found myself struck instead. It hurt—for a split second it was as if I were going through a small straw, but then I heard his thoughts, and I cherished them. It was a brief, whole connection that, even if it cost my life, I would seek out to find again. I knew then, that this baby was _my_ mortal immortal. He would be the elixir to _my_ life. He would be the reason why I'd come back, if just to feel whole.

Hence, I found myself dead, my corporeal form floating around the baby that had made me this way. I thought to myself then that, was I angered at the turn of events? Was I furious that my other half had killed me? No. I thought with grim satisfaction. I was contented, but longing for something that I felt for merely a short time.

And as I drifted there, to my surprise, the baby stared straight at me, holding his arms up, as if I could carry him again.

But I told him,

"I cannot, for I am dead."

Then those large emerald eyes had watered, and I wished then that I had the ability to tune him out. His cries had twisted my heart, and I knew not why I could not do anything to soothe him.

And as it was, I waited. And waited only, and I knew he was saying those words that I had longed to hear with his harsh cries:

_"You are dead."_

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And then, the dreaded Canon happens.

**A/N: Maybe I'll pick it up and change it into a series into a one-shot, but otherwise, **_**NAH**_


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